


Thick Ties

by letsdothepanic, Maraudererasmut



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (sort of), 1980s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Professors, And he's offended when confronted with the fact, Author/Artist Collab, Blowjobs, Embedded Images, Enemies to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hogwarts Professors, Illustrations, Lack of Communication, M/M, No Second War, Remus and Sirius never reconcile after the Prank, Remus doesn't, Remus' Internal Monologue, Sick Hope Lupin, Sirius Black Raises Harry Potter, Sirius has his shit together, Smut, Some angst, Voldemort is Defeated in 1981, Werewolf Politics, handjobs, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-05 15:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18831805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsdothepanic/pseuds/letsdothepanic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maraudererasmut/pseuds/Maraudererasmut
Summary: Remus and Sirius never reconcile after the Prank in year five because Remus is unable to get past how, in his words, “Sirius would snog him in secret and then send someone for him to kill while transformed”. After missing most of his final school years out in dangerous Order missions that culminate in Voldemort being defeated, Remus goes on to travel around and study Dark creatures with his father. Eight years after the end of the war, Remus isn't expecting to be called up by Dumbledore with a professor position for him to fill– or to find Sirius at Hogwarts as well, teaching Ancient Runes and raising Harry Potter. Surprised and a tad overwhelmed, he tries to focus on what he already has on his plate: a very sick mum, a new job and his good ole’ furry little problem. So, when old feelings sneak up on him, Remus decides not to act upon them. Or not to act upon themagain.Written for Wolfstar BigBang 2019.





	Thick Ties

**Author's Note:**

> a great big THANK YOU to [rosielupin](https://rosielupin.tumblr.com/) for the amazing beta work! and, of course to [maraudererasmut](https://maraudererasmut.tumblr.com/) for the art that inspired me to write the drarry-est of wolfstar fics ♥

 

“ _Remus_?”

McGonagall’s voice sounds distant; Remus isn’t really used to being called by his first name, much less by his former professor.

Not even in Order times did she call him by his first name. Back then when they happened to run into each other it was a hushed whisper of “ _mister_ _Lupin”_ and some worried eyes behind square glasses that Remus has not forgotten, but still didn’t think he’d be facing ever again.

Much less regularly, and “early in the morning starting on Monday”, that is.

He never thought he'd be going back to the Hogwarts castle, not after missing most of his seventh year out on dangerous missions, living amongst the werewolves and forgetting how to behave like a real human.

That’s what his father told him when he got back home on October 31st, 1981; that he didn’t know how to knock on a door anymore, didn’t know how to stand up straight. Always hunched over, _like a bloody beast_ , Lyall joked then, and Remus did not find it funny in the least. Especially because deep down he knew his father wasn’t actually joking.But, if they were going to do this– do _life,_ and travelling together, and studying Dark creatures and Dark magic now that the war was over– he would have to pretend the jokes were funny. And that his father really still thought he could unlearn to hunch over, relearn how to knock on a door properly and go back to pretending he wasn’t a beast.

Which he still was, Remus would remind himself. But hopefully only once a month, from then on. “ _Then_ ” meaning “now that James and Lily are dead”, he thought that night.

He stood in front of his father in their little cottage kitchen and stared at the walls, thinking of their situation. “Then” also meant “now that James and Lily are dead and Harry is alive thanks to the old folk magic Lily and I performed together to keep Harry safe, without James knowing”.

James, whose proper friend Remus hadn’t been since year five. Since… _well_.

Since everything had nearly gone to shit, that night in the Shrieking Shack.

Remus and his friend Lily had protected Harry. And Lily was the last proper friend he had, if Remus was honest with himself. They had gone through ancient, dangerous books and found ancient, dangerous magic they could perform behind everyone’s backs– without anyone knowing. Not even Dumbledore was aware of it all, which was another reason why Remus thought he would never be inside the Hogwarts castle again. And much less eating from a very familiar golden plate, and drinking from a very familiar goblet of pumpkin juice at the professors’ table.

Never in a million years would Remus have thought he’d be this distracted; his gaze unfocused as Minerva McGonagall calls him by his first name and he nearly misses his mouth when trying to get a bite of mashed potatoes.

Because Sirius Black is also there.

Sitting at the same table, eating from the same big terrine of buttery mashed potatoes Remus is eating; except Sirius is very much able to ingest them without spilling any on his own robes.

Sirius eats with the same grace he’s always eaten, even when they were teenagers and starving after running around all day, deep into all kinds of mischief; even when he tried to look like a slob and pretend he hadn’t been raised by old hag Walburga, who’d shoot him with Stinging Hexes if she spotted her son’s elbows resting on the table.

Sirius Black is there, and he looks _so much_ like he belongs that Remus doesn’t know what to do with himself. Dumbledore has conveniently forgotten to mention to Remus that Sirius has been teaching Ancient Runes since the early 1980’s. He left the news until right before Remus stepped into the great hall to have dinner, and Remus is sure it was on purpose.

Black ink is visible from where Sirius’ sleeve slides down his bony wrist, and the rune reads something about ‘young minds’ that Remus can barely translate. His eyes are fixed on the way the inscriptions move there as Sirius manoeuvres his fork. He has grown since Remus last saw him. Or at least _matured,_ he thinks. Sirius’ posture is impeccable, and his hair is shiny and his robes look new. He looks good and put together, and Remus can’t help but think of his own, dirty boots. He should have made more of an effort, he thinks, questioning how Sirius manages to look so _professorial_ , despite the new tattoos and the black varnish on his fingernails. It should make him look like a musician or an artist of some sort, and not… not like _Mr. Black_ , as he’d heard a student call him just now.

For a manic second, lost in his thoughts, Remus wonders if the howling wolf is still marked into Sirius’ right calf, or if he’s magicked it off after their falling out.

“As I was saying, Remus, you are welcome to seek me for advice, or if you need help filling in the new lesson planning forms. They can be quite overwhelming when you’re first starting, I have heard,” McGonagall– _Minerva_ , Remus kicks himself mentally– Minerva is calling his attention and talking about bloody school bureaucracy, and Remus has to pull himself back to the present and say something before he’s sent back home by the headmaster.

“Thank you, Minerva,” he clears his throat and tells her with a smile that feels fake, as if Remus has used the wrong muscles to do it. “That’s very generous of you.”

“Nonsense. We pride ourselves on giving these children the best Magical education available. Having a new professor with poorly written forms just won’t do.”

And at that Remus nods, eyes just reaching hers. She is being stern, but also _nice_ and that is just a bit more than his brain can take. Because there’s still the _Sirius_ issue that needs to be dealt with, and Remus is only human and has never been that good at multitasking, if he’s being quite frank.

But yes. Sirius. Right there, two seats away from him.

He hasn’t been this physically close to Sirius in years, not since hours before that fateful night in fifth year; a night Remus has re-watched with his mind’s eye at least seven times since he sat down for supper, still achy from the bumpy train ride to Hogwarts.

Sirius wasn’t on the train, wasn’t walking among the students Remus passed by in the corridors and tried to be congenial to– hoping to cause a decent first impression, to distract them from the scars on his face and the dark circles under his eyes.

Sirius hasn’t been in his thoughts since Remus worked hard to get over their friendship and whatever you call it when you and another bloke snog each other when no one is watching and don’t tell your other friends about it, and then said bloke sends someone for you to _kill_ while transformed into a wolf and–

Anyway. That was 1975, Remus tells himself. He was a stupid teenager, who let his hormones and the sense of security that being a part of _The Marauders_ had lulled him into cloud over his self-preservation instincts. He won’t make that mistake again, no sir. It’s now 1989, he is twenty-nine years old and a bloody adult. And he has _seen some shit_ , so really– he shouldn’t be affected by Sirius’ mere presence the way he is.

It’s because he hasn’t shagged anyone in too long, Remus reckons, back to eating his meal in silence. That’s the only explanation to why he’s so mesmerised by Sirius’ long hair, tied into a neat French plait, or by his deep, silver-coloured eyes that glint almost inhumanly in the enchanted candles’ light.

Sirius has never been _this_ attractive – and that is a rational, objective truth, Remus argues mentally. And Sirius has no _right_ to be.

“Come find me once supper is over, Lupin. Your potion is ready and you should start drinking it as soon as possible.”

It’s Snape’s flat tone that pulls him back to reality this time.

 _Snape_ , who was not killed by Remus in the Shack that night, and also managed to survive the many morally questionable missions they both used to be assigned by Dumbledore back in war times. _Snape_ , whose name was cleared by the headmaster and who’s now incumbed with the task to brew Remus this new Wolfsbane potion, that will keep him safe throughout his transformations.

That is the main reason why he took Dumbledore’s also very questionable offer to take over the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor post, which people still say is cursed. Snape, who keeps on staring at him with mild disgust as Remus gives up on eating and chooses to focus on his juice, before he _does_ spill food on his robes and makes a complete fool of himself.

“I will,” he replies, simply.

With his eyes away from Sirius and Sirius’ plaited hair and stupid grey eyes, Remus is able to finish his beverage. And then when the plates are cleared and Dumbledore’s speech is delivered (with a shy round of applause to Remus when he is introduced), he is able to stand up and walk away as the Great Hall spills out all the students and the rest of the faculty.

Snape is as pale and greasy as Remus remembers, standing under a torch in the corridor that leads to the dungeons. Just like back in those days, they don’t have much to say to each other. With the recommendation that Remus checks his office for a goblet filled with the potion and a jab about his mended robes, the potions master turns on his heels and strides down the corridor, long robes billowing behind him. Remus wants to roll his eyes at the theatrics.

“So you two are mates now.”

Sirius’ voice is unmistakable: deep and raspy and coming from right behind him. It makes Remus jump, gooseflesh on his arms.

“What’s it to you, who I’m mates with?”

Remus knows he sounded petty– pettier than he first intended, at least, but it’s hard to keep the many emotions he’s currently struggling with away from his tone.

“ _We_ were mates,” Sirius tells him, and Remus isn’t sure whether to be angrier about the fact that it is Sirius’ own damned fault they aren’t  mates anymore, or at how _mates_ is the understatement of the decade.

 _Mates_.

Remus thinks of him and Sirius sneaking down what was possibly that very same corridor, under James’ Invisibility Cloak, hands in each other’s back pockets. He remembers the warmth of Sirius’ bum under his palm and through the fabric, and yes– they were _mates_ alright.

“ _Were_. Past tense. No ‘questioning who I talk to’ privileges.” Remus tries to school his expression back into something neutral, but he’s suddenly itching to pull on Sirius’ robes, pull him in and kiss that stupid nondescript smile away from his face because that might serve to remind him of what kind of mates they were before Sirius cocked it all up.

“You’re talking to _me_ right now,” Sirius replies, and it’s infuriating.

The corridor is empty now, the students all gone to their respective rooms and the orange light of the fading torches is making Sirius’ eyes glow. Remus wants to punch him, pumpkin juice and stomach acid burning his oesophagus on the inside as it all rises back up.

“What if I just don’t talk to you again?”

“Well, that would make staff meetings rather awkward.”

Fuck staff meetings, Remus wants to say.

Fuck being civil, fuck being tamed and proper. There’s a beast inside him, and Sirius knows well of it; wanted to use it to do his own dirty work, and now thinks it’s fine to pretend it never happened.

Sirius has almost ruined his life; has almost gotten Remus put down by some Ministry employee with an axe. That’s what happens to werewolves who kill wizards, Remus wants to say. They don’t get to forget their past and share meals with old foes in front of tonnes of kids, the way Sirius does now.

Sirius is a privileged bloody prick, that’s what he is, and Remus is practically fuming at the ears, they’re so hot.

Remus doesn’t know how they get this close to each other in the deserted corridor. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly able to smell the floral and woodsy scent of Sirius’ certainly expensive cologne, but suddenly he doesn’t care about making staff meetings awkward at all.

⁂

 

When Remus wakes up in the morning, he is not in his designated staff-member rooms.

The office space he can see through the open door of the small sleeping quarters doesn’t have a bookshelf resting against the stone wall, facing a window. It’s got a desk and a sofa, instead, all in Gryffindor colours. The weak sunlight bleeds into the room through a crack between the curtains, pale and cold in the early September morning.

He is in too large of a bed– it feels larger than the one he hadn’t had the time to inspect more closely before it was time to move back to the castle. The sheets feel soft and silky, so unlike the standard cotton Remus remembers from his time as a student– and it’s unsettling to realise he’s been drooling on them.

When Remus wakes up in the morning, he’s also not _alone_.

He doesn’t remember who grabbed whom, but he does remember Sirius’ lips on his neck and his hands in Sirius’ hair. He remembers his fingers tangling into plaited locks and how Sirius winced in pain but also rolled his hips up against Remus’ obviously hard cock through his robes and trousers and pants just a _second_ later.

He has vivid memories of shoving his hand into Sirius’s underpants, keeping a tight grip on his hair as Remus gracelessly wanked him off. He remembers thinking smugly about the bruises he was leaving on Sirius’ jaw, and of savouring his winces as if he truly believed he was hurting him more than he was giving him pleasure.

With his eyes closed, Remus can see it almost like a film; how they bit on each other’s lips and shut their eyes too tight so they wouldn’t have to look at each other. Remus remembers everything, down to the moment when they stumbled into Sirius’s office, feeling drunk on anger and resentment and wanting to cause Sirius pain as much as he wanted the man’s hand on his dick.

After failing at pushing Sirius’s head down, Remus found himself falling backwards into his bed. He wanted to see Sirius on his knees, shove his hard dick into his mouth and dare him to call them _mates_ , but there was no time for that.

When Remus wakes up, he is still half-dressed, outer robes discarded on the floor beside the bed, his trousers open and shirt stained with spunk. That’s going to be fucking hard to spell off, and Remus can’t afford new clothes– not until the end of the month when his first salary is deposited into Gringotts. All of his wizarding money has been converted into Pounds as of late. Though mostly paid off by the muggles’ public health care, his mum’s treatment had been putting his finances on a strain, what with the constant trips to London and the looking for specialists on the side.

Hope would sure be disappointed if she knew her son couldn’t travel to see her because he’d had to purchase a new shirt to replace a sperm-stained one, he thinks, with a little mental scoff.

So yes, when Remus wakes up, he knows he’s fucked– though sadly not literally, as his mostly clothed state denounces. He curses at himself and at the light, calculating that it might already be past six. He is not even sure if he can _find his way_ back to his own quarters, and now there’s no way he can ask McGonagall for help without letting her know he spent his first night at the castle somewhere else.

Remus feels like a bloody fool. Sirius still looks ridiculously fit. He’s changed into pyjamas, and Remus has no idea of how or when that happened. Angry at _himself_ this time, he curses inwardly and swears that, whatever the hell happens this year, he won’t fuck Sirius again.

 

⁂

 

Except he _does_.

And the worst is that Remus is the one on his knees, the way he fantasized about getting Sirius just a bit over a fortnight ago. He’s the one who’s swallowed a load of cum with a dirty little smile of his face, like he was bloody well _born_ to do it.

He’s torn between feeling proud of himself for having given Sirius a blowie that’s left him speechless for the last several minutes and kicking himself mentally for having _given_ him something, instead of _taking_ it for himself.

He’s given too much of his life to Sirius Black, he reckons, too much of his adolescent heart and now too much of his time as adults, even if they’ve only interacted briefly and in passing since he’d managed to sneak out of the man’s rooms on his first morning back to Hogwarts. It’s already too much, Remus repeats, too much brain space that Sirius has been occupying lately, as Remus has to put mental effort into avoiding him around the castle. Too much time, too much thought, and, by the sound his knee makes as he stands up, too much of his joints’ integrity, too.

“Have you filled in the month’s forms yet?” Sirius asks him as Remus murmurs an _Evanesco_ and waves his wand at the floor of the empty classroom where his wank-off landed. He feels dirty and dumb, tucking himself back into his trousers. And there’s the anger again, bubbling under his skin as the first thing out of Sirius’ mouth is a question about school paperwork.

Yes, he has filled in his forms. He’s spent a great deal of his time making sure everything related to the job was done to perfection, making sure there’d be no reason to question his being there. His classes have been productive and enjoyable, from what he can tell from the students who attend them, as well as the kids’ gossip he does his best not to let on he’s been listening to.

He’s had a bit of trouble with some Slytherin sixth years, who kept on asking questions about him _going off to see his sick mum_ the week before. Remus knows Snape must be running his mouth, the slimy git, and he has caught himself wanting to wring the man’s neck more often than he’d like to admit. He has no idea of _why_ , either, since Remus was pretty sure they were on decent terms. Luckily enough– or not, because there’s nothing lucky about the way the cancer cells are eating at his mum’s cervix and bladder at this very moment– he does have an ill mother to show for himself, and the little muggle picture of her in a headscarf as his arms circle her tiny frame does help take the students’ heads off the lunar calendar.

Doing his best not to gag at the pity they all keep throwing his way, then, Remus _did_ gag on Sirius’s prick, minutes prior. He shut his eyes closed tight and breathed through his nose and let himself forget about everything else that’s wrong about his life. With the warm, soft weight of Sirius’s hands on his hair he was definitely not thinking about, Remus did his best to swallow deeply and moan around the mouthful, going out of his way to make a show of it.

If anything, as an equally filthy and _stupid stupid stupid_ part of his brain tells him, it’s all worth it if he can throw on Sirius’s face how much better he’s gotten at this since they were fifteen and had done the same in another classroom not far from this one.

He is filthy because he enjoys this, and he is _stupid_ because trying to make Sirius jealous of his cock sucking skills sure sounds like handing him the opportunity to call him a cheap slag.

Remus has definitely not thought this through.

“I could help with the forms. I loathed them in the beginning, but once you get the hang of it, they’re not too bad.”

And on he goes, about forms. Remus can’t decide if Sirius is taking the piss out of him, but even if he isn’t, it’s all still maddening. They don’t talk like that. They greet each other with curt nods and muttered _good mornings_ in the hallways, and that’s about it.

“I can deal with the forms, thank you.” He says, more polite than necessary. Remus checks if he’s got all his clothes in place and curses inwardly at his own voice for sounding so _fucked_.

“Oh, alright,” Sirius tells him, resting against the desk he’s been sitting on. His hair looks even prettier than usual today, all shiny in the twilight.

Remus hates himself for thinking Sirius might’ve sounded _dejected_ , but that would be just mental. It’s not like they’re suddenly going to have a friendly conversation about school bureaucracy, not when his mouth still tastes of _sex_ and he suddenly craves a tall mug of hot chocolate. Or Firewhiskey, if they continue down that road.

“I’m just going down to the kitchens, then. Gonna get some biscuits to take back to my rooms. The elves love me, you know. Always come around with a bunch of stuff.”

Still watching as Sirius straightens his clothes, Remus takes a moment to convince himself that it isn’t, in fact, an invitation. Sirius is just being prattish, going off about how all the house elves love him. Yes, that is it. It is also his cue to leave.

“I’ll… see you around, then,” he tells the man, awkwardly. One-offs were never his strong suit, and this is getting ridiculous.

“D’you–” Remus hears Sirius start again once he’s already reached the door and is undoing the Locking and Silencing spells they have thrown at it earlier.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

“Nevermind. Have a good night, Lupin.”

“Likewise,” he replies, and the use of his surname haunts Remus all the way down to the Great Hall, where he sits down and scarfs his supper down in silence, ignoring the other professors’ conversations, as well as the attempts of some Hufflepuff kids calling his attention when he leaves in a haste.

⁂

 

Making a better job of _not_ making a prat off himself for the next couple of weeks, Remus goes through the rest of September without any major _Sirius_ incidents. He successfully avoids his old schoolmate in every social function they’re forced to attend together – such as regular staff meetings and now the one pub night Pomona invited them all out on, to celebrate her birthday.

Remus is still not used to seeing his old teachers out and about, and much less to seeing them drink one glass of mead too many and then break out in song. He’s used to thinking about Dumbledore and McGonagall as closed-off authority figures– and watching them bicker about how Albus has attempted to _pet_ Minerva in cat form while drunk still feels a bit like an alternative reality of his own life.

The war seems long gone from these people’s lives– especially when Sirius makes his excuses from the pub early because he’s promised the Longbottoms he’d pick Harry up before the children’s bedtime.

It’s strange for Remus, to think about Sirius and Harry like that. He knew before, or at least assumed, that Sirius would’ve been left as Harry’s guardian after James and Lily were killed. And he hasn’t really met the kid more than a few times, even though he had a crucial role in making sure Harry would remain alive. When he and Lily had met in secret during the war, they usually did it alone. She was wary about taking Harry out of hiding, and Remus understood it, of course. Remus also thought she didn’t want to _expose_ Harry to him, but those might have been his own words. He wouldn’t have let a kid around himself, either, he thinks, especially not back then– and then contemplates the irony of having come back to Hogwarts to teach _hundreds_ of kids after that.

But still, thinking of Sirius disappearing through the Floo at the Three Broomsticks before nine o’clock so he can go home and read Harry a bedtime story is still barely conceivable in Remus’ head. It’s practically impossible for him to imagine Sirius Black– professor Black, with his runes tattoos and long hair and the trendy muggle clothes he knows Sirius wears when he’s not teaching– in cosy pyjamas, tucking a nine year-old in for the night. Especially a nine year-old who looks just like James Potter and has Lily Evans’ bright green eyes and wears wire-framed glasses– just like Remus saw on the picture Sirius keeps on his bedside table, the night he spent at the man’s chambers.

“Professor Lupin now, is it?”

Madam Rosmerta’s voice sounds sweet and interested when she brings him a pint on the house, and Remus considers going home with _her_.

That couldn’t be so bad, could it? Giving into some teenage fantasies of his; indulging his _wild_ side, that has his skin prickling and the hairs on the back of his neck standing up since Rosmerta first greeted him for the night. The waxing moon is shining Gibbous behind the clouds tonight, and Remus feels itchy and off-centre.

“Defence Against the Dark Arts, yeah,” Remus tells the young barkeep with a smile he thinks is smooth, but that might be just on the wrong side of it. He hears Madam Hooch laugh to Sprout right behind him and quickly schools his expression back into something more neutral, unsure of how he must be coming off.

“I might’ve gotten better marks at it, with a professor such as yourself,” her accent is thick and so are her eyelashes, Remus notices. A second later, he catches himself raising his gaze from her neckline, where it’s fallen to.

He feels like a twat, acting like this, and blames the way Sirius has him behaving for the past month. This is certainly not his regular behaviour, and deep down Remus has the decency to be ashamed about it. Not that he thinks he’s harassing her; Rosmerta is clearly flirting back. It’s just one of those nights he knows too well; jolts of anxiety causing his whole body to shiver every now and again, like an electric impulse running down his spine. Flirting is a good distraction, though, now that Sirius has left and Remus doesn’t have to actively avoid him.

The phrase “actively avoid him” replays in his head. It’s beyond pathetic. Remus feels himself blush, and downs the rest of his pint.

“Let me know if you ever need help with any boggarts,” he tells Rosmerta lamely, and Flitwick pats him on the shoulder in sympathy when Remus turns on his heel to leave, like the two of them are old chums.

Remus can swear McGona– _Minerva_ shoots him one less disapproving stare before he finally makes his rather wobbly way to the hearth, right before disappearing into a swirl of green flames. He’s proud of himself for not saying the address to Sirius’ rooms– especially because the man would not be there, he’s gone home for the weekend,  to Harry, and all. He lands on his own little sitting room in one piece, then, despite the faint nausea caused by the mix of the drinks and the Floo ride.

Remus has his own shit to worry about– his mum, who hasn’t returned his last letter and _Snape_ , who left a cauldron full of Wolfsbane potion on his desk for his N.E.W.T. level student group to find when they walked into his classroom the previous morning. Remus heard about it during lunch from Alfie Flint, a Slytherin student who was very eager to chat about werewolves and how it was just unbelievable that the Wizengamot hadn’t been able to get the law about sterilising them through.

“They _are_ rated XXXXX by Scamander, aren’t they, professor? So they shouldn’t be out there having _cubs_ ,” Flint asked him, sounding legitimately concerned, and Remus didn’t have the heart to even contemplate telling him off. What would he say to the kid? _Werewolves are people too_ sounded too ridiculous to even begin with, and if he was being honest with himself, Remus was terrified to even get into the subject at all.

So he just excused himself, and praised the boy for doing his reading. Yes, Scamander had given him five little Xs on his scale of horrible beast-ness, but Scamander could go suck on Merlin’s saggy balls, for all Remus cared. And so could Snape, if he was going to continue being a prick, trying to out him like that. Even Dumbledore would have to agree that it crossed a line.

With that in mind, Remus pulls muggle stationary from a drawer in his desk and writes his mum another note, telling her about the weather that’s been sunnier than usual for the Highlands in October. He tells her about the good things about being back at Hogwarts, digging up only the positive parts of his week so he will have something nice to tell her, something that might cheer her up beyond the usual of just merely hearing from him. He includes a hello to his dad, a comment about the castle and how much he’s missed walking around the hallways and chatting idly to the enchanted portraits. Remus writes to his parents with a blue ink ballpoint pen and thinks about how this feels strange and like an improvement at the same time– telling them about his job and how things are going _well_ for a change, even though his personal life is pathetic.

He thinks about the school owl that’s going to fly all the way down to London, and about how the Ministry must not be thrilled about people sending magical mail to Muggle relatives. Once he’s done, Remus ties the letter to the owl’s leg and watches the bird fly away with a smile, before retreating back to bed.

 

⁂

 

Remus is not surprised when he wakes up slightly hungover, though he still feels a bit guilty about it. He drinks a whole bottle of Hangover potion from the stash he keeps for emergencies, figuring that the Wormwood in it must help with things that have nothing to do with his consumption of alcohol– the way his back aches already, vertebrae snapping audibly when he stretches on his way out of bed.

Checking his alarm clock, he finds out he’s already late for breakfast, even for a Sunday, and a quick look out the window tells him the weather  – that had been looking friendly for the past week or two – now seems to have decided to shift to gloomy for good.

With a hearty groan and another roll of his shoulders to try and set his back, Remus chooses to skip breakfast altogether and go for a bath instead. There’s always the possibility of swinging by the kitchens and asking the elves for a snack later, he reckons, turning to his trunk to look for the Valerian Potion to add to his bath water. It is one of the new _alternative_ magical remedies people at Diagon have started selling lately; its shiny label promising “Joint and Muscle Pain Relief for Active and Adventurous Wizards of a Certain Age” in ever-changing colours.

The bathroom adjoined to his rooms is small, but cosy. There’s a shower in the far corner, as well as an old bathtub, and Remus wonders if all faculty bathrooms look like that. The tub looks like nothing special at first glance, but it’s enchanted with an Undetectable Enlargement charm that allows Remus to stretch his legs fully when inside, the water hitting him mid-chest when Remus sits down. The handful of different taps and the assortment of bubbles they provide remind Remus of the Prefects bathroom he had access to as a student, and he resents the fact that the bubbles and the Valerian don’t mix very well, as he’s found out recently. The herb potion smells fine enough, though; its pine-like, fresh scent reminding him of winters at his family’s home in Wales.

As Remus inhales deeply, allowing the potion to seep into his pores and work its magic, he wonders whose idea it was to build a bathroom especially for Prefects, and what did they think the room would be used for. There was nothing wrong with the showers at the Gryffindor dorms, Remus muses, eyes closed and memory working. And it wasn’t like he had that much spare time to soak in a tub back then, he thinks, questioning the utility of such a lavish bathroom in the castle. The only use he found for it at the time was actually–

 _Oh_ , Remus sniffs, the vapors making his resolve of _not_ thinking about him and Sirius weak. He crinkles his nose and wipes at his face, scooting forward so he can rest the back of his neck against the lip of the tub, and regretting not getting a towel to use as a pillow.

The best use he found for the Prefects bathroom back then was the opportunity it gave him to spend _time alone_ with Sirius, away from other Marauders.

Deciding he’s tired enough not to fight it, Remus chooses to relax, and the memory of one of his most _enthusiastic_ encounters in that bathroom spills to the front of his mind. It felt thrilling, back then, to be out of bed after hours. He had just been named a Prefect and was still surprised McGonagall had done it at all– so being away from Gryffindor Tower after everyone had retired for the night was still novel, the sensation of power that came with it strange, but in a positive way.

Remus remembers waiting, filling the tub with water and checking his watch anxiously, listening for footsteps on the corridor outside. The fear of getting caught by a fellow prefect felt almost overwhelming back then, and Remus has to laugh at his younger self, taking a deep breath as the Valerian-infused water soothes his body, melting away the tension from his muscles.

He remembers the look on Sirius’ face, too, all sharp smiles and wide eyes when he realised Remus was waiting for him naked in the water, braveness fed by the bubbles that helped conceal his body.

It’s with only a tinge of shame that Remus reaches down to touch himself in the present. He’s past pretending he doesn’t _want_ Sirius, he realises suddenly. _It would be useless anyway,_ he sighs, and closes a hand around his half-hard cock. It’s just because of the proximity of the full moon, he argues, stroking himself lazily– and besides, he deserves this for not going after Sirius the night before.

Remus has everything under control, he tells himself, a small moan leaving his lips. He’s ready to leave this bath and go live his best life after he drinks the goblet of Wolfsbane that should materialise on his nightstand any time soon. He’ll pull on his clothes and have a jog around the lake, to get rid of the extra tension he’s been holding on to; that will do him good. He might even ask the elves for something healthy to eat instead of his usual bacon butty and– oh.

Oh, _fuck._

Sirius likes bacon butties, he thinks lamely, head thrown back, the hard edge of the tub hurting his nape. Remus is panting already, eyes resolutely shut as he gives in and thinks of _Sirius_ ; Sirius and the stupid way he holds his sandwiches– Sirius’ fingers and lips and–

Remus comes with a choked cry, and it takes him several minutes to notice that the bath water has gone cold.

 

⁂

As it turns out, Remus has not brought any sort of trainers to Hogwarts with him, and would have to choose between jogging in loafers or boots, if he really wanted to exercise. He also hasn’t practised transfiguring clothes since the war, so it’s the fear of permanently maiming his comfortable shoes that keeps him from going running after his bath– and not _at all_ the way he feels boneless after it, stomach growling for some greasy, salty goodness. So he makes his way to the kitchens with his head held high, the bitter taste of the Wolfsbane potion clinging to his tongue as he makes his way down the stairs to the level floors and then the dungeons.

So it’s not like he’s expecting it when he hears a familiar, deep baritone coming from a mostly closed-doored classroom on the below-ground floor. He has already expunged Sirius from his system today, thank you very much, and he doesn’t need to go around looking for him. Besides, this _isn’t_ Sirius’ classroom, Remus is sure of it. He teaches near Gryffindor Tower, with a beautiful view of the hills that surround the castle. It’s prime real estate, when Hogwarts classrooms are concerned, and nothing like the humid, cold rooms near the dungeons.

There was _no way_ Remus could have predicted this, and so there’s no reason to feel guilty when he slows down his pace to approach the room and peer inside. Sirius is talking to someone, it seems, and curiosity brews inside of Remus, overriding his capacity to best judge the matter. From what it looks like, Sirius is talking to a Slytherin student– who turns out to be one Alfie Flint, Remus sees when he finally reaches the alcove before the door, which has been left ajar.

_Fuck._

An uncomfortable shiver runs down his back at the sight. What could Alfie possibly want with Sirius? His curiosity about werewolves has got to be a coincidence, Remus tells himself, shaking his head and rolling his shoulders. Besides, Sirius wouldn’t waste his time having private conversations with students about something that had nothing to do with the subject he teaches, would he? He wouldn’t just– Wouldn’t talk to him about– _fuck._

With his hand shaking and anxiety making his heart pound, Remus performs a discreet Charm to be able to listen to them better. He hides himself from view by standing close to the alcove wall, scared that everyone in a three metre radius might be able to hear his rushing pulse as loudly as he currently does. Again, _fuck._

“So now they want me to pick between Rosier and McNair, just like that,” Alfie cries, and Remus tries hard, but doesn’t understand it. It’s not what he’s expecting, at least.

“You know you don’t _have to_ , though?” Sirius offers, and even though Remus can’t see him, he imagines he must be looking all benevolent, from what his tone denounces. Not a conversation about werewolves it seems, but it still feels serious. Remus keeps his ears open, Charm in place.

Alfie takes a bit to reply.

“I don’t want to disappoint them,” he starts, and Remus tries to place who _they_ are. Dumbledore? The other professors? Rosier and McNair used to be Death Eaters, he knows that much.

For a second, Remus considers barging in, putting an end to this. He rakes his mind, trying to remember if the Flints were involved in the war. Could Sirius be in _danger_?

“But it’s… hard. I’ve been uh– seeing someone, and…” Remus hears Alfie say, and he doesn’t sound threatening at all.

He has to check his reactions there, tell his body to switch off Danger Mode. If this is about who Flint is dating, then, it shouldn’t have anything to do with bloody Death Eaters. Still– _what the hell_?

“You mentioned it last time, Alfie, and that’s okay. You don’t have to do everything your parents tell you to do. I’ve met your mum, and she seems like a reasonable witch.”

 _Reasonable?_ Remus thinks, and now he’s mostly sure that the Flints weren’t Death Eaters. Shame on him, for associating all Slytherins with the Dark side. Alfie is a good kid, after all. Bigoted, sure, but that shouldn’t be entirely his fault.

“She is. More than father. But she still won’t be chippy about me seeing a mud–” Remus hears Alfie stop himself before he can blurt out the slur, and feels an unexpected rush of _pride_ for the boy.  

“Seeing a muggle born girl!” Flint finishes, exasperated. “And besides, I’m not ready to marry anyone! I’m only seventeen and–”

“Listen,” Sirius interrupts him. He has all of Remus’ focus as he keeps on talking in a tone that’s both soothing and firm.

“I know it might feel like the worst thing in the world right now, but you should just tell your parents you’re not ready. And, when the day comes, if you do end up marrying a muggle born, then you’ll have your own family, Alfie. I’m not saying it will be easy, to go against your mum and dad, but they might come around.”

“And if they don’t?”

“If they don’t, well. Do you think it’s worth it? To deny who you are, and who you love? Just so you can hang out with a bunch of Pureblood snobs?” Sirius says it in a comic lilt, and Remus pictures him reaching to touch Alfie’s shoulder, with more of that benefic smile of his.

Sirius is just being a good teacher– a _mentor_ to this kid, and Remus thinks of the first impression he had of him at the staff table, on the first day of classes. He thinks of the way Sirius looked like he belonged at the professors’ table and his heart does a flip in his chest that has nothing to do with Danger Mode.

Remus promptly decides to ignore it. Alfie is still talking, after all.

“I can’t stop thinking of my little brother, hanging on to every prejudiced word dad says. I want to help him, you know? But he won’t listen, He just–” Alfie continues, and Remus drifts off once again, thinking of what must be going through Sirius’ head as he listens.

Remus remembers what happened to _Sirius’_ little brother, Regulus. Him joining the Death Eaters and then dying soon after the war began. Remus remembers hearing it from one of the werewolves in Greyback’s pack, back in the day. They called him foolish, traitorous and worse; the swotty Black kid who suddenly decided he was too good to fight for the cause.

Remus wonders if Sirius has heard the truth about him; the role he had in finding Voldemort’s Horcruxes. Remus has no idea of how to broach the subject, and has no idea of the talks Sirius and Dumbledore might have had since the war. For one manic moment, Remus wishes he knew _everything_ Sirius and Dumbledore have talked about, but not just in a curious way. He wishes he _knew_ Sirius, wishes he knew what his life was like for the past thirteen years.

Now too distracted to continue paying attention to Sirius and Alfie’s conversation, Remus tries to imagine what life has been like for Sirius Black since they stopped being friends.

“Don’t forget your Runes translations for next class,” Sirius’ voice right behind Remus startles him.

“Ah, Professor Lupin,” Sirius greets him with a smile, and Remus has no explanation to why he’s standing in the alcove that leads to the presumably empty classroom Sirius and Alfie just stepped out of.

“Good evening,” he greets back, lowering his face. Remus knows he must have everything he’s felt for the past half hour stamped across his forehead. _When did I get this shitty at sneaking around?_ , he asks himself mentally, and feels his neck heat up with embarrassment.

“You too, Sir!” Flint says cordially, slipping away from them and down the corridor and bringing Remus back from his dazed state.

Burning with the shame of being caught, Remus forgets all about the lunch he’s gone to the dungeons to find. Instead of hanging around, he takes a turn to the wrong side when he’s running away, before Sirius can question him about what it was that he was doing there, listening to his private conversation.

 

⁂

 

“Remus?” Sirius whispers, brushing some hair away from Remus’ forehead with gentle fingers.

Remus hums instead of responding, burying his nose in Sirius’ hair. It’s been about ten days since the Alfie incident. Sirius has been gracious enough not to bring it up, even when they inevitably meet again and end up snogging in a deserted corner of the castle like teenagers.

He _could_ have brought it up, Remus knows it, and he’s thankful Sirius didn’t. Remus still doesn’t know what he would have said in his own defence– or what he would have done if the urge to throw caution to the wind for good and strike a conversation about the past resurfaced. But Remus doesn’t have to think about that now, and he doesn’t have to talk when he’s letting his fingers tangle in the dark, soft locks of Sirius’ hair. He is free to let his eyes fall shut, and free to inhale the scent of Sirius’ cologne: floral and woodsy and bloody _mouthwatering._

He’s free to occupy his mouth with something else– which means leaving lazy kisses on Sirius’ collarbone at the moment, taking advantage of the skin revealed by the swift removal of his shirt just moments ago. Sirius has reached his own conclusions about Remus’ spying and they are favourable enough that they’re at this again: his hands are warm and surprisingly soft as they hold Remus’ shoulders, trail down his biceps.

They have time to do this today. Remus was fairly alarmed when Sirius asked him to come to his office –  afraid he had finally decided to call him out on his ridiculous behavior – but all he found was Sirius’ desk pushed against a wall, and a coffee table newly placed before his sofa. Sirius had tea and sandwiches laid out for them, and a fire roaring in his hearth. It felt… _homey_. And not at all like a set-up for an uncomfortable conversation.

So Remus relaxed, poured himself a cup of tea and waited for Sirius’ motives to become clearer. He sat there as they talked about the weather, and school forms and how their students were getting along. Sirius told him stories about kids he knew from other years, and how he’d seen this Hufflepuff boy go from being the shortest in his year to an amazing chaser. He sounded… proud. And responsible. And _happy_ , too, on top of all that. So Remus saw no reason not to go with it. He listened, and laughed, and eventually forgot about the fear of being called out. He even _drank a whole cup of tea_ before scooting close to Sirius on the sofa and beginning to touch him inappropriately. Remus is proud of his own self restraint.

“Hey, Remus,” Sirius whispers again, and Remus _melts_ at the sound of Sirius saying his name.

Remus murmurs in acknowledgement and pulls the man down on top of him, kissing him deeply. He relishes in the feeling of Sirius’ hands on him and almost purrs when Sirius reaches for one of his nipples, tweaking it expertly.

They’ve taken their time to undress each other tonight, too. Sirius has rubbed Remus’ shoulders, carded his fingers through Remus’ hair and described in lovely detail how he plans to finger him for _hours_ , until Remus is reduced to a whimpering, begging mess.

And Jesus _bloody_ Christ, Remus wants this. It’s hard to believe that this something they haven’t done before – not recently and not back then when they were young; too clumsy and hesitant– and Remus is only a bit ashamed of admitting he’s _dying_ to do it.

He has thought about it. He’s calculated exactly how close he can let Sirius get. Remus has paced around his rooms, organised his wardrobe, changed his sheets and actively _not_ thought of Sirius and of how much he’s been fantasising about having him over for biscuits and maybe some red wine too. He’s cleaned up the broken quills and old balled-up parchment sheets from his desk, and put away the assortment of books that usually litters his floor, and busied his brain with every meaningless activity he could think of, trying to see if the ordering of his tangible possessions would be any help to ordering the things going on inside his head.

Remus is trying– he has determined how close they can get, and is adamant about sticking to it.

And from what it looks like, it’s paying off already.

So he stalls answering for another few minutes, still leaving soft kisses on Sirius’ neck as they undress further. It’s an affectionate gesture, he knows it, but it doesn’t have to _mean_ anything.

“What is it?” Remus finally replies, having successfully removed Sirius’ boxer briefs. He pulls the man for a kiss, then, nipping on his lower lip, feeling the scruff on Sirius’ chin burn his skin. Remus shifts until his back is on the mattress and Siris is slotted comfortably between the V of his legs. This is nice, he thinks, having Sirius’ weight on top of him, testing out the waters in a way they never had the opportunity to do when they were kids. Remus thinks they might have fucked this up, if they tried it back then. It might have been too much, he muses, picturing his fifteen year old self rolling around with Sirius on his Gryffindor dorm bed. It might have been too much then, but it’s fine now. They’re _good_.

“I want to talk to you,” Sirius tells him, and his voice makes gooseflesh rise on Remus’ arms.

 _Or not,_ Remus thinks.

This isn’t something he wants to hear right now, not when the only piece of clothing between them is his own underwear, and they’re kissing on Sirius’ bed.

He wants _more_ kissing, wants to continue rubbing against Sirius, wants Sirius to fuck him into the bloody mattress like he’s promised. Remus might even let himself doze off for a few minutes after they come, before putting his clothes back on and sneaking back to his quarters.

Except Sirius wants to _talk._

He has a flush high on his tan cheeks, his lips are pink and a bit swollen, and yet he wants to _talk_.

“We already talked today,” Remus replies, his tone playful.

“Ha, funny,” Sirius sounds like he doesn’t believe that’s funny at all. “But really. I– I want to talk to you more.”

Remus frowns, pulling his own lower lip between his front teeth. Sirius kisses him without a second of hesitation, and there his hand is again, gently brushing a curl away from his eyes.

“More?”

“More. And about things other than the rain and student Quidditch.”

“But the first games of the Cup have been really interesting,” Remus insists, still cheery. “McDougal scored _sixteen_ goals last match and–”

Sirius’ expression closes, and Remus can’t help but picture the sun being obscured by clouds on an autumn day. Sirius’ whole body seems to pull away, even though he’s moved barely an inch.

“You’re being daft,” Sirius complains.

He _is._ And it _should_ be working. It should dispel the tension, get Sirius to laugh and push the subject aside so they can go back to kissing, get back on their way to shagging each other senseless. But Sirius doesn’t look amused, and this time he does pull away physically– sitting on his haunches, looking at Remus from above.

Now, _this_ isn’t what Remus expected they were going to do tonight.

“I can’t do this, Remus.”

 _Fuck_. He feels cold all over, and it’s impossible that the sensation is this strong from the loss of contact only.

“I’m an adult. A parent,” Sirius continues, slowly, as if waiting for Remus to respond.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Remus has no response, though. He just scrunches up his nose at the words, brain rushing. He knows all that. He’s a bloody adult too, and a professor– same as Sirius. But before he can open his mouth to protest, Sirius raises a hand, leaves it in the air between them. It’s more than a physical barrier, and it works to leave Remus floundering, measuring what to say.

“I can’t… I can’t see you like this. I can’t play these games, Remus.”

Sirius sighs and retrieves his hand, covers his face with it. He rubs his eyes, then, and Remus watches him, still unsure of what to say. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears, his whole body working in overload. He’s too aware of his limbs, too aware of being naked. He feels too vulnerable all over again, and it’s beyond unpleasant. He hasn’t been _playing games_ , he was _protecting himself._ That’s such a wrong way of putting this and– such a ridiculous accusation. He just doesn’t– he can’t–

“We’re not– you’re the one–” his thoughts come out of his mouth unfiltered and incomplete, and Remus hates feeling this stupid. He’s an intelligent, articulate person, for fuck’s sake. But hearing Sirius blow him off– after everything they’ve been through, after what they were just doing, nonetheless– seems to lower his IQ to dangerous levels, leaving him feeling stupid and exposed.

“I want you to come meet Harry. Have lunch with us, talk to him. He’s a great kid and I’m sure he’d like to meet one of James and Lily’s old friends.”

Remus is speechless.

“Let me know when you’re ready to make a real go at this.”

So he watches Sirius leave the bed and pick his clothes off the floor for him. It would feel less like a rejection if Sirius didn’t literally _Accio_ his own underwear from the tangle of blankets, the grip on his wand looking shaky. A couple of snarky comments about it come to his mind, along the lines of how ludicrous it is, that Sirius would be this desperate to see him leave after _everything_ , but Remus refrains from making them. He’s never been that good at confrontation, after all.

So he pulls his clothes back on quickly, eyebrows knit together and colour rising on his face.

Sirius seems _disappointed_ at him, for not saying anything. Remus feels the shame burn his ears once again, and he feels even worse for not knowing what to say. Everything about what Sirius is proposing is absurd, and Remus is bloody offended at the accusation of _playing_ with him.

He leaves without another word or glance at Sirius’ outer robes thrown carelessly over his trousers and shirt. Remus leaves with a lingering feeling of “what the fuck just happened”, going over the last hour in his head, trying to pin down how did they go from having sex to– _well._ Not.

Remus sighs and closes his eyes. He stands in front of the portrait that serves to conceal Sirius’ door, rubs his face with a hand and groans quietly, setting his feet in motion. The minutes pass and he feels numb as he navigates the castle corridors to get back to his rooms without being interrupted, getting lost thanks to a moving flight of stairs that leads him to the wrong floor.

When he finally reaches his own door, Remus’ thoughts are running wildly, and he wonders if Sirius will be healing the marks he’s left on his shoulder right about now.

On top of his dresser is a finely carved wooden box, which definitely wasn’t there when he left hours ago.

 

⁂

 

After throwing a good amount of Dark magic detecting spells at the box, Remus rules out the possibility of it being a trap, or at least something designed to harm him.

It doesn’t look like a prank, either– he doesn’t think anyone in the castle would _want_ to prank him, much less anyone who would have access to his rooms– but still he refrains from touching it with his bare hands. His head goes back to Snape and his neglectful treatment of that Wolfsbane potion cauldron, and to the N.E.W.T level class that found it, about a month ago. The recent cover of the Prophet advocating for werewolf registration laws is marked in his brain since he saw it at breakfast a couple of days ago, and Remus reckons he can’t be too cautious. The war might be over, but there’s still people are out to get him, it seems.

It feels silly, to be wearing dragonhide gloves to hold such a harmless-looking object, but if working with Lyall all those years has taught him anything, it was that dangerous things come in every shape and size, and you can never be too careful.

It feels even sillier (and ironic, to a level) to _sniff_ the box as he ends up doing, careful not to let his nose touch it either, but Remus trusts his instincts. It’s undignified, but it does the job– there’s no _evil_ to be smelt in the box, but he does catch a familiar floral, woodsy tinge.

He shouldn’t be surprised, but at the same time Remus knows his getting defensive wasn’t unfounded. It doesn’t stop his stomach from flipping, though, or the hairs on the back of his neck from standing up as he puts the box down and goes to bed, angry at himself _and_ Sirius for the ridiculous scene that went down between them not an hour ago.

 

⁂

 

Remus doesn’t get the chance to ask Sirius about the box in the following weeks. In fact, he is pretty sure Sirius might be avoiding him. Sirius is nowhere to be found when Remus goes outside for his usual walk around the lake in the early morning, and they stop bumping into each other on his way to the staff room after afternoon lessons, as had become habit. In fact, Sirius seems to be avoiding _any_ kind of interaction, not only the ones where they might be alone, and Remus is a tad confused, but doesn’t push it.

He would love to dwell on the reasons why Sirius has decided to be the one to do the avoiding, especially since _Remus_ was the one who had to go back to his quarters with a sock missing after their falling out, but Remus has more urgent matters on his mind. He's used to dealing with the moon, and the way everything seems to trigger a reaction in him; his skin itchy and joints creaking. What he is not ready for is to receive his father's latest letter.

“Mum has taken a turn,” Lyall wrote him, in a much tidier scrawl than his usual. It wasn’t that long of a letter, barely filling the small piece of paper it came in, but again his dad has never been one to beat around the bush.

“The muggles are doing all they can, might try new alternatives soon. There’s nothing St. Mungos can do to cure it, since it’s not a magically borne illness. I’ve been giving her potions to help with the symptoms, so she’s comfortable. Please come visit as soon as you can.”

Remus has read the letter many times, as if a new reading might change what it says. Predictably, it hasn’t. He knows as well as his father that “as soon as you can” won’t be for another half a week or so, since the full moon is tonight, and Remus won’t be able to travel for a day or two afterwards. He certainly wishes he could, though, and he hopes with all his heart that it won’t be too late to go see her on Thursday instead of today. Dumbledore has already told him he can take the week off, and Remus only feels a bit guilty for it when he downs the last goblet of Wolfsbane of the cycle and sits down on the comfortable armchair by his little fireplace, waiting for the transformation to come.

The moon rises, and it is as painful as ever.

In the body of the wolf, it is harder to think about his human problems the way Remus does when he’s himself, but there‘s still a vague sense of dread clinging to his consciousness. As he lies there, curled up in the rug in front of the fireplace, his thoughts drift on and off. Out of all the conflicting feelings he experiences between the dormant urge the wolf has to _run_ and _fight_ and Remus’ own fear of hurting people or _losing_ them, what prevails tonight is a sense of _loneliness_ that Remus doesn’t remember having ever felt while transformed before.

The times when he would run through the Forbidden Forest with the Marauders are long gone, but he’s surprised to notice how the wolf’s mind keeps going back to those memories, of being free and fearless– and, most importantly, not _alone._ The wolf has never missed its Pack before so fiercely, and catching onto the scent of the wooden box does nothing to help it.

With his muzzle in the air, the wolf senses the box on top of Remus’ dresser. With no hands to reach and grab it, he practically watches as the wolf paws at the furniture until the box falls, unopened and undamaged, right on the floor.

 _Padfoot_ , the wolf thinks. But also _Prongs_ and parchment and ink and jasmines. Remus hasn’t been on Wolfsbane long, didn’t know the wolf’s senses would be this sharp, this acute.

He feels his heart ache and break, and the wolf falls asleep with its head resting on the rune-carved surface, waiting for the moon to set and for dawn to come.

 

⁂

 

Remus manages to see his mum a day before he thought he’d be able to, out of sheer willpower. As he walks into the muggle hospital, the fluorescent lights hurt his eyes and the smell of bleach and _illness_ attack his heightened olphat. His shoes seem to make too much noise against the linoleum floors and, by the time he reaches Hope’s room, he feels sick to the stomach.

She looks even thinner than the last time he’s seen her, and the worry in her gaze makes his heart impossibly heavy.

“And here I thought they were treating you well in Scotland,” she tells him with a warm smile that makes her sunken eyes crinkle around the corners. Remus desperately wants to hold her. “Someone sent me some very misleading letters,” she jokes.

He knows he looks tired– but, in the end, the fear of being too late overpowered his usual effort to spare Hope from seeing him right after a full moon.

His mum feels tiny in his arms when Remus wraps his arms around her. He doesn’t comment on it.

“Waning gibbous,” he tells her, instead, and she knows what he’s talking about immediately, though she doesn’t look too convinced.

Since he’s started on Wolfsbane, there have been no new scars to show for Remus’ monthly affliction, but that’s not what’s causing Hope’s questioning look. ‘ _I know you_ ’, he can read in her expression– mainly in the arched eyebrow, now patchy and discoloured thanks to the chemo. ‘ _You’re hiding something from me_ ’, the little click of her tongue tells him, and Remus has no alternative but to tell her everything.

So he talks. She’s used to hearing about him fancying men, that’s not news– but Sirius being back in his life is. It took him years to fess up about what happened in school (minus the sexy details), but by the time Remus took the job as a Defence professor, she had heard everything.

Hope has heard everything about Remus and Sirius, everything about what drove them apart. And though he feels guilty for burdening his mum with his mundane problems, Remus is grateful to be able to share them. It feels like a normal life a person would lead, he thinks, telling his mum about his love problems. As she likes to say, these kinds of problems are universal– magic or no magic. And though Remus never parts from his wand, and takes pride in knowing complex and intricate spells, sometimes he does wish he could hide in this world for a little longer at a time.

So they talk, but Hope doesn’t offer any advice– she knows better. She’s got a stubborn son, Hope Lupin, and she leaves him to sort through his own romantic messes.

They spend the afternoon sharing her narrow bed, then, watching telenovelas on the static-addled hospital TV, and she fills him in on all the ridiculous, dramatic plots. She tells him about the twins that share a lover, and how one of them is evil, of course. They watch people cry and shout at each other at beautiful, tropical beaches and the hospital room feels a bit like home when Hope and Remus laugh at them together.

By the time the sun has set for good and the nurses show up to kick Remus out, he and his mum have made a pact to learn Portuguese in the summer, once she’s home on break. He knows there’s little chance of it happening, but insists on his promise.

On his way back to Hogwarts, Remus allows himself exactly ten minutes to have a cry in the Leaky Cauldron’s bathroom, before using their Floo to head to Hogsmeade. By the time he sets foot in the Three Broomsticks, his face is no longer red or puffy, and his voice is firm when he replies to Rosmerta’s greeting, wishes her a good evening and then slips through the door before she can engage him in conversation.

Despite the biting wind, Remus makes his way to the castle on foot. He stops twice to renew the _Impervius_ charm on his boots and coat, against the thin but insistent drizzle. He misses his mum already, and he doesn’t care about how pathetic that sounds, fiercely clinging to the new memory of their lovely afternoon.

 

⁂

 

The drizzle turns into snow as November comes and goes, and Remus and Hope’s weekly mail exchange turns into a daily back-and-forth of short letters. Remus tries to keep his notes upbeat, talking vaguely about his days, sometimes mentioning class anecdotes, sometimes the stories his students tell him about the most varied things. He doesn’t mention Sirius, but it isn’t as if there’ve been news on that front.

They haven’t talked since mid-October, and Sirius still seems determined to avoid him. Remus hasn’t said a word to his mum about how he misses the little things about having Sirius around– from stealing glances as he marks papers in the staff room to their more intense _rendezvous–_ and she hasn’t asked him, either. Though Remus is happy to hear from his mum every day, he’s afraid she might not be telling him everything that’s going on back in London.

So when he doesn’t see the school’s owl he usually uses to contact her swoop down along with the others during breakfast, Remus is instantly concerned. There’s no sign of her daily letter when Remus returns to his office during lunch to see if it’s been delivered there, either, and his mood sinks even deeper.

Remus is distracted throughout the rest of the day, and teaches his classes in an atypically detached way, droning on about protective charms and Dark spectres as the kids draw on their desks, whisper to one another and even take furtive kips. He’s in no mood to reprimand the students, and ends up assigning less homework than he planned, trying to make up for the shitty lessons he’s given them.

“Just… reread the chapter on Grindylows, please. We’ll do essays next week…” Remus tells a group of third year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, his last class of the afternoon. He is already planning what to say to Dumbledore next; how to ask him for time off without sounding like he’s losing it. Remus feels very alone all of a sudden, even with the sound of children running around in the hallways, laughing and talking loudly and his heart sinks further when he remembers Sirius won’t be there when he passes by the professors’ lounge to drop off the lesson books.

When Remus finally gets to his rooms, the sun has already set and his stomach is rumbling with hunger, thanks to having missed most meals of the day. Ready to ignore it, he takes his time removing his robes and shoes. Remus washes his face in the ensuite sink without looking up in the mirror and it isn’t until he reenters the room and walks towards his dresser that he sees a parchment envelope with his name on it.

The envelope has got “ _Remus”_ written on his father’s messy scrawl, and it’s been tucked under the wooden box Remus has left untouched since the full moon.

Mad at whoever was responsible for not notifying him of the letter’s arrival, Remus takes a deep breath before reaching for it. His hands are shaking when he takes the parchment, nervous sweat making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

“Dear son,” the letter starts with, and the tone feels _wrong_ . Remus can’t remember the last time his father has called him _dear_ and it’s slightly unnerving. But still he keeps on reading, heart thumping in his chest.

“Doctor had several scans done today. They say mum’s tumours have shrunk since you were here last. Her lungs are almost clear of fluid from what they can tell, and she’s breathing much better.”

A warm feeling spreads through Remus’ body and it’s almost like his _own_ lungs have been cleared– his chest lighter than it has been in weeks. Still surprised by his father’s words, he reads on, without giving the rest of the text much attention.

 _Mum is getting better!_ – is all Remus can think, and _I’ve got to tell Sirius_ , a second later.

The realisation that he wants to share his _life_ with Sirius – and not the bad moments, not something he might need to be selfishly distracted from, but the _joy_ he feels reading about his mum’s recovery– it hits him with an unpredicted force.

Remus feels dizzy all of a sudden, and clutches his father’s note tight in his fist, crumpling the parchment as he tries to get his thoughts in order for long enough to decide what to do. He looks around the room, looks out of the window and into the grey sky. Everything reminds him of Sirius, and he’s finally at peace with it. With a smile blooming on his face, then, Remus takes his time to get used to the feeling; to savour it.

He doesn’t see the moment it happens, but Remus know exactly what _causes_ it: when he looks up to the wooden box on the dresser, it’s not locked anymore.

Not even the Dark spell detectors were enough to open it the night when he first got the box delivered to his room– the detectors gave him a diagnosis, told him that there was nothing to fear about the container. They didn’t tell him what might be inside it, though, and weren’t enough to _open_ the box, which remained undisturbed for the last month, always on the same place on top of the dresser.

But now it’s _open_.

Remus shouldn’t be surprised by what he finds there, shouldn’t feel his eyes widen as they land on the contents of the box that’ve been hidden from him for the last month.

 _Letters_ . Long epistles, written in black ink and careful handwriting. Short notes, scribbled on bar serviettes and pieces of ruled notebook paper. A candy wrapper– _Honeydukes’ Finest_ , it says, in bright purple letters. There are pages ripped from books, with notes along the margins– poems and what looks like a recipe for the Muscle Pain Relief potion, invented in 1986 and published in the Sunday Prophet. There’s a couple of drawings, too– doodles and full landscapes, in watercolour and charcoal. A lock of soft, black hair, tied with a deep red ribbon, that Remus figures must’ve belonged to Harry. A tiny pair of baby socks with Gryffindor lions on them.

And the _photographs_.

Of Sirius, yes, but also of Harry– Harry as a baby, Remus sees it, having dropped his father’s note on the floor in the haste of picking up the moving picture he takes from the box. A tiny Harry Potter smiles at him from the square frame, waving his chubby little hand and blowing a sloppy toddler kiss toward the camera.

“ _Wish you were here to see this_ ,” Sirius’ handwriting informs him, along with a date. 1982.

“ _Never stopped thinking about you, Moony,”_ a Christmas card says, marked 1987.

“ _We went to see James and Lily in Godric’s Hollow today. Would’ve been easier with you here, I’m sure. Prongslet was so brave, you should’ve seen it,”_ Remus reads from the back of a photograph that shows only a hazy, gloomy sky. It’s dated October 1985.

Remus digs deeper into the box, then, until his fingers close around a picture of what must’ve been the Potters’ wedding– there’s James, waving at him, his hair sticking out in every direction, just as Harry’s does in the portraits Remus has just seen of him. Then there’s Lily, arm around James’, glowing beautifully; her deep red hair plaited like a halo around her head, a veil trailing down behind her.

Remus misses them so much– and he fiercely wishes he’d been there to see them on that day. He wishes he could change what happened, wishes he could’ve helped Lily further, wishes he could have saved them when the time came to.

And then Sirius comes into the frame.

He’s _beyond_ handsome– his face alight with laughter, eyes full of joy. And Remus doesn’t think he can handle the note behind the picture, his heart suddenly flipping inside his chest, stomach sinking.

“ _You know, I thought I’d marry you one day.”_

It’s dated 1979.

Remus doesn’t read the rest of it– doesn’t get to the part where Sirius signs it with little broken hearts and a tonne of self-deprecating words and apologies. Remus pockets the photo with less care than he probably should and gets his shoes back on, finds his outer robes from where he’s dropped them on the floor.

And then he’s rushing out the door, all but running towards Gryffindor tower, where Sirius’ office overlooks the hills.

 

 

⁂

“You thought you’d marry me?”

Sirius looks surprised, his eyes wide. Remus reckons he must not have been expecting anyone to pound on his door after hours– much less  _ Remus _ to do it. He had no idea he’d spent so long going through the box back in his room; the little arm on the clock just over Sirius’ desk sits between 12 and 1, already.

And Sirius is standing there, dressing gown over grey pyjamas, woollen socks on his feet and his hair plaited away from his sleepy face. He looks like he could’ve been in bed already, and Remus barely has any time to feel guilty over waking him up. 

He knows what  _ he  _ must look like: face flushed from climbing stairs in a hurry, curls in disarray and deep shadows under his eyes from the past weeks of not getting enough restful sleep. And yet he can’t bring himself to care; he knows there’s no way he could’ve waited until tomorrow for this.

“When you were 20!” he blurts out next, hopeful gaze searching for Sirius’.

It’s taking him a great effort not to close the distance between them and just plant a kiss on Sirius’ lips–  _ Circe’s tits, those lips,  _ Remus thinks, suddenly very aware of how much he’s missed them– but he keeps it in mind that Sirius wanted to  _ talk  _ more. That’s what he said last time, Remus reminds himself, and tries to organise his thoughts so he doesn’t cock this up. 

“At James and Lily’s wedding, you… you thought you’d marry me!” He continues, and it’s less graceful than Remus wished it’d be, but hopefully he’s gotten his message across. A grin is threatening to split his face in two, and Remus would be self-conscious about how eager he looks, if only he could still find it in him to care about showing Sirius how greatly he feels at the moment.

“I take you’ve opened my box,” is the response he gets from Sirius, and Remus can’t keep from nodding eagerly, his face growing impossibly warmer.

“Your box opened for me,” he corrects him.

And this time there’s no reply needed– it’s Sirius who pulls him into a kiss, leaving him breathless in surprise.

It takes Remus a beat to kiss back, then, to figure out where his hands should go and what his lips are supposed to be doing. He’s overwhelmed with it, much like he was at 15, and it’s  _ terrifying _ , really.

It’s also  _ bloody worth it. _

So he lets himself feel everything– the warmth of Sirius’ hands: one on the back of his neck and the other tangling in his hair sending sparks through his whole body. The way Sirius’ mouth opens for him, and drags him in, in the sweetest of ways, it’s just…! Remus is happy to lose himself on the embrace, too tired of trying to hide how he  _ needs _ this,  _ needs  _ Sirius this close.

It’s clearly no surprise when soon enough Sirius fingers find the buttons on his shirt, and Remus has no problem letting him undo them. They’re still kissing when Sirius’ dress gown falls to the floor, and still kissing when Remus’ trousers follow it.

Snow is falling outside but inside of Sirius’ rooms there’s a fire roaring in the hearth– and Remus is all too comfortable blaming it for the way he can feel himself blush as they land on Sirius’ bed, in a tangle of quiet laughter and limbs. He thinks of the last time he’s been here, of their clothes on the floor and of feeling vulnerable– but there’s nothing of that sort going on this time.

They undress each other calmly, once in bed. Sirius lies with his back against the headboard and Remus kneels between the V of his parted legs. They look at each other, and Remus doesn’t think of what Sirius must be seeing– he takes his own mind away from his flaws; from his freckles and scars. Remus lets Sirius  _ see  _ him, casting his eyes down without meaning to, but also not hiding, per se.

He looks at Sirius, too. Thanking whatever deity there is out there, Remus feel grateful for being allowed this moment to commit Sirius’ body to memory, even if he doesn’t  _ need to.  _ This is  a beginning, Remus tells himself when he notices something he hasn’t before: the howling wolf on Sirius’ calf. The one he wondered about, if it was still there.

With something he doesn’t want to call  _ awe _ in his eyes, then, he reverently kisses the skin the wolf is inked into. He lets his eyelids fall shut and breathes in Sirius’ scent, lets it overtake his senses.

“It’s still here,” Remus murmurs, and Sirius strokes his hair.

“I would never,” Sirius says simply, and Remus understands it.

As he trails up Sirius’ legs– tiny kisses, big kisses, wet kisses– Remus knows what he means, knows what he wants to say. When Remus’ lips touch the runes so expertly drawn into Sirius’ thigh, he thinks of the photographs and the letters, and he knows that Sirius has never forgotten him. 

That he has never wanted to.

 


End file.
